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Rh dark as to the manner in which his grandfather had been affected by it.

'People think nothing of that now, sir,' said he, groping in the dark as he strove to administer consolation.

'People will think of it;—and I think of it. But never mind, my boy. I have lived my life, and am contented with it. I have lived my life, and have great joy that such as you are left behind to take my place. If I had really injured you I should have broken my heart—have broken my heart.'

Peregrine of course assured him that let what would come to him the pride which he had in his grandfather would always support him. 'I don't know anybody else that I could be so proud of,' said Peregrine; 'for nobody else that I see thinks so much about other people. And I always was, even when I didn't seem to think much about it;—always.'

Poor Peregrine! Circumstances had somewhat altered him since that day, now not more than six months ago, in which he had pledged himself to abandon the delights of Cowcross Street. As long as there was a hope for him with Madeline Staveley all this might be very well. He preferred Madeline to Cowcross Street with all its delights. But when there should be no longer any hope—and indeed, as things went now, there was but little ground for hoping—what then? Might it not be that his trial had come on him too early in life, and that he would solace himself in his disappointment, if not with Carroty Bob, with companionships and pursuits which would be as objectionable, and perhaps more expensive?

On three or four occasions his grandfather asked him how things were going at Noningsby, striving to interest himself in something as to which the out-look was not altogether dismal, and by degrees learned,—not exactly all the truth—but as much of the truth as Peregrine knew.

'Do as she tells you,' said the grandfather, referring to Lady Staveley's last words.

'I suppose I must,' said Peregrine, sadly. 'There's nothing else for it. But if there's anything that I hate in this world, it's waiting.'

'You are both very young,' said his grandfather.

'Yes; we are what people call young, I suppose. But I don't understand all that. Why isn't a fellow to be happy when he's young as well as when he's old?'

Sir Peregrine did not answer him, but no doubt thought that he might alter his opinion in a few years. There is great doubt as to what may be the most enviable time of life with a man. I am inclined to think that it is at that period when his children have all been born but have not yet began to go astray or to vex him with disappointment; when his own pecuniary prospects are